Open Grave

  ‘He’s in here.’

  ‘You’ve grown your hair,’ he commented.

  ‘It’s been like this for ages, Dad.’

  They entered the ward, four of the six beds occupied by old men with varying levels of sickness. The first housed a man who looked in his mid-fifties, heavily tattooed, with an oxygen mask on. A family sat by the next bed – in sorrowful silence – as a frail-looking man lay asleep. Various machines and mounted TV sets gave out faint sounds, a mild respite to the sick and dying. Jack suddenly felt very warm. The fact that the hospital had allowed them in outside of the usual visiting times told him all he needed to know.

  His father was lying in a bed by the window. He was asleep, his breaths coming in short, sharp gasps. He tried to suppress the sadness he now felt as he looked upon the man who had raised him, but who was practically a stranger. Quietly, he pulled up a small plastic chair and sat by the edge of the bed.

  ‘Hello, Jack,’ a familiar voice greeted him from behind.

  ‘Louise,’ he said. ‘You didn’t have to come.’

  ‘I’m here for Shannon,’ she snapped, then – her face softening – added, ‘but if there’s anything you need...’

  They settled into an uncomfortable silence. Jack sporadically picked at the grapes someone had brought in for his father. He loved grapes, but they felt tasteless to him as he sat with the three people who, just a few years before, had been the people closest to him.

  He noticed that Louise had also grown her hair, much like Shannon’s. Shannon had inherited her mother’s striking looks, green eyes and jet-black hair. Divorce had obviously served her well. Not that he was bitter. Even though they’d both been unhappy, the breakup had been his fault and his fault alone. The look in Shannon’s eyes told him she agreed.

  ‘How’s Jeremy?’ he asked, referring to her partner.

  ‘Don’t pretend like you care,’ she said.

  ‘Can you two not get on for just one day?’ Shannon scolded.

  He looked to his daughter, all grown up. It used to be him that told her off.

  ‘You’re right,’ Louise sighed, placing a hand on her arm. ‘I’m sorry about Harold.’

  He glanced to his father. It was probably a good job he was asleep. He loved Louise like she was his own daughter. He probably wished she was. When they’d divorced, he’d blamed his son, the last remnants of an already strained relationship cut forever. His father had never wanted him to join the police force, preferring a trade such as a carpenter or electrician. ‘Real work,’ as he’d put it. Harold Lambert would have preferred his son down the mines, but Thatcher had seen that one off. Jack’s disdain for reactionary politics, coupled alongside a career with ‘the enemy,’ had put paid to any pleasantries between them. When he told his father that he was gay, the old man had merely snorted, picked up a newspaper and told him he could see himself out.

  Hence Louise finding out about his admission to hospital before he did.

  His father roused. ‘Carl?’

  His eyelids forced open, the whites of his eyes having turned a dark shade of yellow, much like the rest of his skin. If he didn’t get a new liver soon it would be too late.

  ‘No, Dad, it’s me,’ he said, placing a hand on his father’s clammy arm.

  The old man squinted at him. Carl, his younger brother, was off globetrotting on some biochemical adventure as the head of a major corporation. He got to travel, earning five times what Jack did. A job to be proud of, apparently.

  And he was straight.

  ‘Ah.’ The old man coughed, before closing his eyes.

  * * *

  At 10am Jack arrived at the station, his mood as dark as the black coffee he’d picked up along the way.

  ‘Where have you been?’ The desk sergeant stopped him.

  ‘In hell,’ he sighed. ‘Why?’

  ‘Edwards’ meeting, remember?’

  No, he hadn’t remembered. Necking the caffeine hit, he binned the cup and hurtled up the stairs.

  ‘Detective Lambert, how nice of you to join us.’ Edwards eyeballed him.

  The whole room turned and stared. Jack ignored the passive aggression and planted himself next to Watkins who had saved him a seat.

  ‘Where were you?’ he whispered.

  He shrugged. Getting into his family history wasn’t something he was interested in right now. Glancing around the room, he saw there were a dozen or so officers who had been summoned to attend the meeting. They all looked how he felt. Edwards’ meetings were legendary in that everybody would rather be out on nightshift, getting puked on by a drunk outside the Crown and Anchor, than listen to one of his monotonous rants.

  ‘As I was saying!’ the DSI bellowed, narrowing his eyes in Jack’s direction. ‘I know we all have busy caseloads right now, but this double murder has to take priority. Since the press got hold of the story, the public have been drummed up into a frenzy. We need results and we need them fast.’

  His superior officer grabbed a morning paper from the table he had propped himself onto, holding the front page up for all to see. The image of the grassy knoll – where they’d discovered the two bodies of Jessica Lisbie and Travis Kane – appeared front and centre.

  ‘Detective Inspector Jane Russell has an update on the Travis Kane angle. Jane, if you wouldn’t mind filling the officers in on the details.’ Edwards motioned, shuffling out of the way.

  This was news to Jack. As senior investigating officer he should have been the one calling the shots and, indeed, they were already chasing up leads on the male victim. He glared towards the DSI who was looking anywhere but at him.

  DI Jane Russell sprang to her feet and hopped up to face the room. Seeming to take a dislike to the patch of table that Edwards had been leaning on, she scooted across to the other side and placed a light blue coloured folder on table before clearing her throat.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ she said, straightening down her suit jacket and glancing over the assembled officers. ‘I took the liberty of preparing a few pictures to help go over some of the key details and keep people focused.’

  As if on cue, the lights dimmed and the silence was broken by the sound of a projector whirring into life. He could feel the room give a collective groan as she fished about in the folder.

  ‘Fiver says somebody gets caught sleeping,’ Watkins whispered.

  ‘You’re on,’ he replied. ‘And make it a tenner.’

  The Bulldog clicked the control, a gruesome picture of the two, bloated corpses flashing up in the process. Jack heard somebody gasp a few rows back. Up ahead, DC Gerrard seemed to be casting an interested look over the images as a number of other officers settled in for the show.

  ‘These are the bodies that were found just days ago in Cleadon Hills, South Shields. As of right now, we have very little to go on but I’m hoping that will soon change. After putting a rush on the lab, we have identified the victims as twenty-six-year-old Jessica Lisbie and thirty-one-year-old Travis Kane. Whilst Jack is leading the investigation into the female deceased—’ he saw a grimace work its way over her pointed-features ‘—I have been speaking to the family of Mr Kane.’

  Although the DI was talking, Jack was unable to take his eyes from the bodies on the screen. It was almost as if he were back in the tent, looking at them for the first time. The scent that had hit his nostrils reappeared in his psyche.

  ‘Although not ideal, the press leaks may now work in our favour.’ Jack zoned back in to the briefing. ‘If it helps in getting witnesses to come forward, we might be able to get the ball moving with regards to possible suspects. Personally, I feel that I can handle this situation perfectly well, but...’

  ‘Ahem,’ Edwards cut in. ‘The investigation will be operating under DCI Jack Lambert’s command. Hopefully we can draw a swift conclusion to this one before they send in extra help.’

  Jane sent daggers his way but, for Jack, the feeling was mutual. Still, there was no point in getting too upset about her need to massage her ego. Her am
bition was what ultimately held her back.

  Edwards was right, though. Although they had a large and well-drilled force, they didn’t want outsiders to be called in. The press would have a field day. Something similar had happened down in Manchester, not long ago, and the entire force was struggling to repair the damage it had done to its public image.

  ‘Also,’ Edwards continued, ‘as you know, our usual criminal profiler is currently unavailable,’ he said, referring to her pregnancy. ‘So, as of tomorrow, Frank Pritchard will be temporarily coming out of retirement to help us.’

  Jack smiled. He’d been the one to suggest they bring Pritchard back in. Expecting a straight ‘no’ from the psychologist, he’d been surprised by the old man’s enthusiasm at the idea of coming back. Having him back would feel like a blast from the past, the two of them having worked closely on a whole host of cases in years gone by. Edwards, unable to see past old school methods of deduction, was not the man’s biggest fan.

  ‘Anyway, as I was saying,’ DI Jane Russell continued, flicking to the next picture, a close up shot of the bodies. ‘Things are probably going to start moving pretty fast. Let’s just hope everybody can keep up.’ She shot a cursory look towards Jack.

  ‘Thank you, Detective.’ Edwards stood up as the lights flickered back on.

  ‘This is going to get interesting,’ he mumbled to Watkins.

  ‘That’s one way of looking at it.’ The DS grinned.

  ‘Thank you all for your time,’ Edwards said, breaking up the meeting. ‘Oh, and Harriet?’ he called to the back of the room. ‘If you want to sleep, do it in your own time, not mine.’

  ‘Shit,’ Jack cursed, fishing out a ten pound note.

  ‘Just so you know.’ DI Russell cornered him as he stood to leave. ‘I’m perfectly capable of leading this one up without you. There’s no need to busy yourself with it.’

  ‘Well, I like to keep myself busy. Keep in touch, Detective.’ He moved past her, towards the front. ‘I’ll be expecting daily reports on my desk by 9am.’

  He was sure he could still hear the grinding of her teeth, long after she’d left the room.

  ‘What’s crawled up her arse?’ Watkins asked, holding up his winnings.

  ‘Same old,’ he said. ‘It’s real, don’t worry.’

  ‘And where the hell were you?’ Edwards collared him.

  Jack held his posture. Although he was a touch over six foot, and not exactly skinny, Edwards’ frame dwarfed his own. He’d known the DSI for many years and, whilst others thought him incompetent, he’d always had a grudging respect for the man and his methods. At least he was consistent in his approach. He’d be damned if he was going to be treated like some kid on work experience, though.

  ‘Logan, I don’t have to account for my every movement,’ he told him. ‘But, seeing as you’re curious, I was visiting the old man in hospital.’

  ‘Ah... is everything okay?’ he backtracked.

  ‘Not really, but he’s been ill for some time,’ Jack said. ‘You mind telling me what all that was about?’

  ‘Look, she asked if she could get up and speak. You weren’t here...’

  ‘Let’s get one thing clear,’ he snapped. ‘Either I’m SIO or I’m not. I can deal with Jane and her God complex, but I don’t need you undermining me as well.’

  Edwards shrank back, placing a hand on his forehead. The man looked like he was about to keel over. ‘I need you two on side, here,’ he said. ‘The ACC is up my arse on this one, not to mention the new PCC.’

  PCCs, or Police and Crime Commissioners as they were commonly known, were a recent initiative from the government. Not happy with the already sickening levels of Americanisation in British society, they’d stolen the idea of ‘sheriffs’ from their Atlantic neighbours. The new Northumbria PCC had a reputation for being hands-on, constantly hosting meetings with officers to discuss public grievances, no matter how large or small. If the ACC was getting hassle, there was no doubt the DSI would be next in the firing line.

  ‘Let me do my job, Logan.’

  Edwards shook his head. ‘It’s the ACC, I swear. I have faith in you, Jack, I always have. But we’re all under pressure here.’

  Jack brushed him off. ‘If there’s nothing else I have a dinner date to get to.’

  ‘Who’s the lucky lady? She got cracking legs?’ Edwards winked. ‘Ah, sorry.’

  ‘No, he most definitely doesn’t.’

  * * *

  Jack found him sitting on a stool by a large side window. He made a beeline for him, cracking his knuckles as he approached. Taking a deep breath, he tried to remain calm.

  ‘Ah, Jack, it’s good to see you.’ David Robson held out a clammy palm.

  He declined it. ‘Save the niceties, Robson.’

  So much for calm. He ordered a J2O and a side of onion rings before settling down for the private chat that the journalist had requested. Jack had wanted to speak to him anyway but, as it turned out, Robson had contacted him first. He glanced over at his host, the familiar twitching moustache manoeuvring around his upper lip.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry about the press conference.’ He held his palms up. ‘But it is my job, you know.’

  ‘Who’s the mole?’

  Robson shook his greasy head. ‘You know I can’t give that information out, Jack... even if there was one.’

  He stood to leave. ‘Then we are done here.’

  ‘Wait!’ the journalist pleaded. Jack noted the tremor in his voice. ‘Maybe I can help you.’

  He took a swig of juice. ‘I know how this works, Robson. What is it you’re after?’

  Indeed, he did know only too well. David Robson had done a great job of making the entire force look foolish over the Newcastle Knifer case, Jack in particular. Pritchard always used to say that there were two types of journalist. One, the moral journalist, of real use to the police, genuinely caring about the welfare of the public. Two, the selfish journalist, only concerned about his or her own pay cheque, no matter what the cost to others. David Robson definitely came under the latter.

  The reporter picked up his whisky tumbler and swirled it around before taking a small sip, moisture lining his mouth as he cleared his throat to speak. ‘I’m in a spot of bother.’

  Jack resisted the urge to laugh. ‘So, what’s that got to do with me?’

  Both men paused as the barmaid brought the onion rings over, plonking them down in front of Robson. He made to grab one before Jack swatted him away.

  ‘Well... you’re a policeman, aren’t you?’ he stuttered. ‘Sworn to protect and serve.’

  He shrugged. ‘Depends what mood I’m in.’

  ‘Look, I know you’re looking for somebody who used to work for a certain... aquatic shop-owner.’

  Jack lowered his voice and felt his temper rise. ‘How do you know that?’

  The shift in Robson’s usual cocky demeanour was remarkable. Sweat was beading from his brow, his eyes darting about the bar.

  ‘Look,’ his voice lowered. ‘There’s a war coming to these parts and it’s coming soon.’

  ‘Over what?’

  ‘Territory.’

  Jack shrugged. ‘So someone is moving in on McGuinness’s patch. What’s that got to do with me?’

  Robson paused, bringing a hand across his forehead. ‘Because when the bodies start piling up, you’ll be left picking up the pieces.’

  Jack thought about it. Robson was right; if another gang decided to encroach on Dorian McGuinness’s patch, he’d be certain to react. Sometimes it’s better the devil you know.

  ‘So how are you involved?’

  He pulled at his collar. ‘I dug a little too deep and they know that I know something. It’s only a matter of time before they come for me.’

  ‘And what do you know?’

  ‘I’ll be a dead man if I speak about it. I shouldn’t even be sat here with you now.’

  Jack reached for an onion ring but found his appetite had deserted him. There was no doubt that Robson was
spooked, which didn’t happen very often. Still, he couldn’t exactly set up surveillance outside the man’s house twenty-four hours a day. Pushing his food towards the journalist, he stood to leave. ‘Do you know what has happened to Liam Reed?’

  ‘No.’

  Jack nodded, the look between them giving him all the information he needed. Liam Reed was long gone. The question was, who was next?

  8

  Jack spent the night stewing over what Robson had told him in the bar, feeling unsure of his next move. They’d have to start watching McGuinness closely. That was easier said than done, though. Dorian McGuinness was no mug. He would be alert to anything unusual and, if he really was hiding something, Jack didn’t want to frighten him into doing anything rash.

  Six years ago, the police had reason to believe that McGuinness was involved in protection racketeering – still did, in fact. But back then they had a witness who was willing to testify in court. However, two weeks before the trial the witness mysteriously had his kneecaps realigned after a bar-room ‘altercation.’ After that, he refused to talk and the case collapsed.

  ‘We need to talk, guv,’ Watkins said, greeting his boss as he entered the bustling MIR.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Nell Stevens? Looks good in a thong?’

  Jack waved him away. ‘I know. What about it?’

  ‘There’s been another incident.’

  ‘Tell me,’ Jack said.

  ‘Well, there’s been a break-in. Nothing was taken but we’re running checks on potential fingerprints. Whoever it was smashed up the place.’

  ‘Does she not have some kind of top-of-the-range security installed in her home?’ Jack asked. Most local celebrities did.

  ‘Sorry, did I not mention it wasn’t her house?’ Watkins said.

  ‘Not her house? Then which bloody house was it?’ he snapped. ‘Details, Watkins.’

  ‘Her mother’s.’

  Jack sat at a nearby desk and gathered his thoughts. If the stalker had attacked Nell Stevens’ mother’s house, then it had to be somebody she knew. It wouldn’t take a genius to find which mansion the younger woman had purchased. But the mother? Something wasn’t adding up. Pausing, he focused on what he already knew. Nell Stevens had found fame, fortune and, potentially, a stalker. She goes to a well-known bar on the Quayside and meets with unwanted attention. After this, she starts receiving threatening notes. Now there’s been a break-in, but at her mother’s house, not her own.